Her Majesty: A Selection Fanfiction (COMPLETE)

Two

After a full two hours of collecting used toys and games it was time to watch the Report. I exited my bedroom carrying an old child's sack full of used board games and worn out toys that my brother and sisters had contributed. My little sister, Alice, had even given away her prized teddy bear that she still slept with.

"Even Terry wants to help us save money," she had told me as I had put the bear in the sack. Someone could certainly use Terry more than we could.

The Report (credit goes to Kiera Cass) was a weekly program that was featured on our television. It showed the royal family along with our country, Illéa's, progress and news.

The king began The Report by talking about the usual news: budgets, money, and trade developments. Stuff I usually didn't pay attention to. But not tonight. Tonight I would listen to anything that would help my family. This changed, however, when a man dressed in a sparkling midnight blue tuxedo jacket and navy pants waltzed onto the stage as King Mason took a seat.

"Hello, Illéa," he smiled, waving his arms around good naturedly. "My name is Stan Spiele and I'm here today to make a big announcement!" The small live audience erupted into applause. My family was silent as we watched the battered television. "As you all know, our very own Prince Charles has come of age to be married." Stan glided over to the prince, a boy with soft caramel-colored hair and grey-blue eyes. "He's seventeen and he's ready for you, women of Illéa." I noticed the prince gulped at that. Maybe he wasn't too on-board with these future plans. "As you all know, in the past we've hosted events called Selections to pick the future queens and princesses of our great nation. Hey, our very own Queen Annette Costa was picked through a Selection!" Stan waved at the queen, a lovely woman with soft, shoulder-length hair, sparkling tiara, and royal blue brocade dress. She smiled regally back at him. "So, Prince Charlie, care to tell us the rest of this very big announcement?" Stan held his microphone to the prince.

"Well," the prince said, taking a breath. "I've decided, with my parents' consent, to have my Selection. I'm ready to be married and I know how well it worked out with my parents, so I believe it is finally time."

Stan gently pulled the mic away from Prince Charles. "Well said, my prince." He turned to the live audience. "Now that Prince Charlie is available you--yes, you--can enter to court our fine prince! All you have to do is sign a form, answer some questions, and your name will be entered, easy as that." He grinned. "That's all, fine citizens. Thanks for tuning in and we'll see you next time on The Report." With that, the screen blacks.

Ophelia turned to me. "A Selection?"

"Oh, Harlow, you can enter!" Alice was practically jumping off her seat on the floor. "That way we can make money to survive." Every Selected girl makes a little bit of money to pay her family while she is away.

Though the idea sounded tempting, I knew it could never happen. "I don't know, Alice. The Selection is a big competition, it's highly unlikely I'd ever make it in."

Alice frowned. "But--"

James interrupted. "And you know how those girls are in these competitions. They'd rip apart sweet little Harlow's heart, not to even mention what that prince would do. Harlow is much too innocent to have her heart broken like that."

This time it was my turn to frown. "C'mon, James, I'm not a little kid. I think I could handle myself in this competition."

James shrugged. "Whatever you say, Harlow." I rolled my eyes, but secretly I was a bit worried. Even if I did make it in, what promised that I'd find a good husband? If I lost, how would I make money for the rest of my life? I swallowed hard and pushed those bad thoughts away.
"Maybe Alice is right, kids." My mother rubbed her arm absentmindedly. "It would be an excellent source of money, not to mention Harlow could get married off. She'd be happy."

I shook my head. "It's highly unlikely," I remarked.

"It is," agreed Ophelia. "But won't you just try to enter? For us?"

I took one look at her pleading blue eyes and knew I was done for. Ophelia and Alice wanted, more than anything, for me to throw my name in with a mix of thousands of other girls for a royal husband I didn't even know. I would have to do it, for them.

"I'll try," I breathed. This was hard but hey, all I was technically doing was putting my name into a drawing. That's all they wanted of me, a fighting chance. It was just like putting your name into the prized pig contest as a little child, with the exception of a prince as a prize versus a fat, blue-ribboned swine. I could do this.

"Yay!" squealed Alice. "Harlow's going to be a princess!"

I held up my hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Alice. I'm just entering my name, I make no promises on getting drawn, or, if that, on winning the competition. Got it?"

Alice nodded quickly but I could still catch the excitement in her eyes. "Alright," she said, "but, to be honest, I think you would make a great princess. You're kind, honest, and smart."

I put a hand to my heart. That was the nicest thing she had ever said to me! "Aw, thanks, Alice."

~~~~

The next day we went to enter the Selection. My mother walked me to there to the post office to get my picture taken and to fill out my forms. I filled in the blanks. Name: Harlow Davy. Height: five foot eight and growing. Hair color: blond, Eyes: green. Occupation: amateur cook. It was rather simple.

I had picked out a simple outfit to wear: black pants with a flowered, pale blue floaty top and matching yellow flats. My mother had pinned back my flowing, dirty blond locks. The outfit was lovely for my picture; the colors really popped against the plain beige backdrop.

The photographer glanced at my forms and took the picure. "Wow," she said, taking a brief look at the final result. "Your outfit looks amazing in this photo. Great job, Prince Charlie will be sure to pick you."

"Huh?" I glanced up. I hadn't thought the prince got to pick the entries.

The photographer looked around to make sure no one was listening. Luckily, my mother was examining some potted plants by a windowsill. "Look, girl, do you really think the Selected are just randomly chosen?" I flushed. "They're called the Selected."

I raised my eyebrows, but secretly I was questioning this. Did the prince really pick his girls based upon their looks or benefits? I shoved the thoughts out of my head. I didn't want to think of him or the royal family like that.

The photographer dismissed me by moving on to the next girl, a wiry little one with brown hair and freckles everywhere. My mother and I left, my mother singing praises about my lovely picture.

"Oh, sweetheart, you looked absolutely breathtaking in that photo," gushed Mom.

"By 'breathtaking' I hope you mean halfway decent," I scoffed, shaking my head.

My mother turned to me. "What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing," I replied. "Sorry, something the photographer said just got to me a little too well."

Mom looked worried. She always looked worried. "Everything okay? Did she say something unprofessional?"

"No," I replied. "She was fine. I guess I'm just nervous."

My mother laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "And you have the right to be nervous," she chided. "You're really putting yourself out there."

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